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Monday, March 19, 2012

Cedar Tree

As I read old poetry I scribbled years ago, I stumble upon one that I actually used to perform in spoken word performances. I am beginning to realize the rhythm of it, but it may not be obvious to the reader.

Another poem about a massacre. October 25 2006.

The storm has continued the barrage for daysCrops of this field have been flooded with rainYoung roots in this soil can no longer drinkThe bullets of rain these storm clouds sprayAnd blood from wars now remains as a stainThe young cedar is battered, the old mountains sink

They ushered me with their weapons to my seatWhile all I held was an old rake and dry seedsAfter sowing a nation and spirit scarredAnd years of taking to the shelled streetIn search of my nation’s lost beadsOf prayer and hope and unity, yet they began to bombard

My country. Now with them I am seatedThey say: You with the dirty, worked hands committed the crimeI am accused of raising children vile to their needsAnd my sentence is to accept that I am defeatedAnd with my people I must serve timeBehind bars of humanity’s silence, who pays no heed

To the fact that these children I bore are children of warRaised by my accusers and taught death and starvationReared to believe that they are wanderers with no nameTold that it is their kind this world will deploreThat they deserve no rolling hills or fields of a nationAnd are slapped with the iron will of one with no shame

These children were spat on by the mouth of no reasonTargeted by an eye with no sightIgnored by an ear deaf to cries and whimpers, children whose cry is thisMelody muffled by the overcast of a morbid seasonClouds overarching truth and banning the sunlightMy only crime is being the voice that screams music of justice

Like Fairuz, who opened the cedar doorTo a world where my accusers are the ones in the rightBecause they bomb children while they sleepAnd crush men who are pinned to the floorBy the prayer one utters under the rain of gunfightIn mourning of a way of life now buried deep

Under the rubble of my hopes shattered by a bomb, one tonOf hatred dumped on the veiled women who weepIn agony when passing places where the children ranWhile playing games, but now running is not for funFor my hungry accusers chase me in my sleepAnd slowly awakening, I realize their plan

To hide in the shadow of words like democracyTo brand me a terrorist plotting a crimeTo justify themselves for fighting in self defenseYet the orphans point my accusers to hypocrisyAnd they carry photos and say: This is the Sabra of our timeCharging Qana as if Shatilla was no expense

And now I sit at this table to confessWhile the weapons they hold point away from rightAnd instead at my heart, as truth keeps its steady beatMy accusers hear its rhythm and know that I am blessedSensing my will and my firm faith, their frightGrows, for they realize I know not the meaning of defeat

I say: As long as this storm continues to poundA people who only know toil will sweatBeads for this nation’s glory, for it is faith that I knowAnd with my old rake and dried seeds, I take oath by these holy groundsGenerations to come and thrive after these times is my threatTo your plan to raise us in fear, these dried cedars will grow

Into tomorrow, so bring your artillery of fake treaties, I shall remain hereStanding under the shade of our struggle, under my mended treeWatching my children climb its firm branches of hope to playBreathing in a sky clean from polluted clouds of chemical fearOr a storm that rains bombs and bullets thought to make us fleeI swear with my rake I will fight for this day